Wives & Mothers

by Jeanne Whitmee

  ‘I should have been there for her all those years,’ he said thickly. ‘Maybe if I had...’ The remorse in his eyes tugged at Tricia’s heart and she looked away.

  ‘You must have had a reason for leaving as you did — a good one.’

  ‘Of course it seemed a good reason, at the time. Values are so different when you’re young. In retrospect I don’t come out of it so well. It’s your grandmother who was the strong one in the end. Look what she made of her life — and then look at me.’

  ‘You mustn’t say that, mustn’t put yourself down. You’ve had a good career.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve rubbed along. Nothing more than that. Stella was the one with the talent. All I did was bask in her reflected glory. Even that didn’t last long. There were a lot of bad times too.’

  Tricia looked at her watch. ‘I’m sorry, Harry. I’ve got to go now. Rehearsal at three.’ She grinned. ‘Must try to keep on the right side of Max, mustn’t I?’

  He watched her go, swinging across the restaurant with long confident strides, her violin case under one arm and her blonde hair swinging. Elaine’s girl. In spite of the fact that she wore no make-up, made no attempt to glamorise herself, there wasn’t a male head that didn’t turn in her direction as she passed. It was her freshness, her youthful charm and exuberance that was her main attraction. Harry sighed. He hoped Max wouldn’t be too tough with her. It would be criminal to break a spirit like that.

  *

  Grace had cleaned the house from top to bottom. In the spare room she had put carefully chosen books and magazines by the bed, fresh flowers on the dressing table. In the oven a beef casserole and an apple pie stood ready to be served. Were they still Harry’s favourites? Her hair was freshly shampooed and set and she was wearing the new dress she had taken so much trouble in choosing. It was coral — a soft shade that flattered her colouring and enhanced the rich velvet brown of her eyes. She stood looking round the neat, comfortable room. Yes, everything was ready.

  For the tenth time that day she rearranged the vase of flowers on the little table in the window, glancing up the road as she did so. Around four o’clock, he had said. It was almost a quarter past now. Maybe she should have gone to meet the train. But she hadn’t wanted to seem too eager.

  She turned from the window to sit on the edge of the settee, her ear alert for the softest step on the path outside. If only Elaine wasn’t so disapproving. It wasn’t that she’d actually said anything, more what she hadn’t said. All those years ago it was Elaine who had always upheld her father. They had been so close, often made Grace feel left out in those old, far-off days. And he had never forgotten her birthdays and Christmas, so why was she so reluctant to meet him again now?

  She was still puzzling over the problem when a sudden ring at the front doorbell brought her to her feet. He was here. Passing the hall mirror she took a last glance at herself, then went to answer the door.

  ‘Do you know what struck me about this house the moment I saw it?’ Harry leaned back in his chair, replete after his second helping of Grace’s apple pie.

  ‘No. What was that?’ She cleared away the used plates and began to pour coffee.

  ‘That it was like the little house in Stanmore. There are even cherry trees in the road outside.’

  Grace smiled. ‘I know. That’s what made me buy it after I gave up the shop. It reminded me too. I loved that house.’ She passed him the sugar. ‘I always promised myself I’d buy another just like it when I retired.’ She looked at him. ‘I daresay you’ve lived in all sorts of places on your travels.’

  He nodded. ‘All sorts. Posh hotels, grotty hotels, apartments, rented houses... but oddly enough, never anything permanent. The little flat where I live now, in Notting Hill, is the most permanent place I’ve had. But it isn’t a patch on this.’ He looked round approvingly at the light oak furniture and pastel green carpet, the dainty china ornaments and tastefully arranged flowers. ‘This feels like a real home.’ He smiled at her. ‘But you always had the knack of making a place homely, Grace.’

  She stirred her coffee thoughtfully. ‘You and Stella — you never wanted to marry, make a home and have a family? You never asked me again for a divorce.’

  He was silent for a moment, then he looked up at her. ‘There was a time once — she had a miscarriage. She was very ill afterwards. After that her career started to fall apart and she got very nervy and insecure. She badly wanted us to be married then.’ He paused. ‘I even came here to Cambridge once, to ask you again for a divorce.’ He smiled reminiscently. ‘I stood on the other side of the road and I saw you come out of your shop with this good-looking young fellow.’ He looked at her. ‘I couldn’t do it, Grace. Suddenly, I just knew I couldn’t do it.’

  She frowned. ‘Why not? If you’d asked me then I might have agreed.’

  ‘In a way I think that was what I was afraid of,’ he confessed. ‘You looked so happy.’ He avoided her eyes. ‘I was — well, jealous, I suppose, though God knows I’d no right to be.’ He shrugged, smiling sheepishly. ‘Anyway, when I got home that night Stella seemed much better. She seemed to have forgotten all about it — never mentioned marriage again. A few months later we went to Australia. Somehow it didn’t seem to matter to her whether we were married or not over there.

  For a few more years we were reasonably happy, till she got ill again.’

  ‘I’m sorry...’ She touched his hand. ‘About Stella, I mean. It must have been awful for you.’

  He nodded. ‘It was. Her illness is something I don’t like to remember.’ He patted her hand. ‘Still, all over now.’

  ‘It must have been Morgan you saw that day,’ Grace said thoughtfully. ‘He’s a young knitwear designer I helped when he was starting out. We worked together and were close friends, though he was much younger than me. But there was never anything more between us. Morgan was — has other preferences.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ Harry nodded. Morgan Owen wasn’t interested in Grace as anything but a business partner. That was why they were such good friends. He glanced at her. She was still beautiful. Her skin glowed with health and her eyes shone. She’d kept her figure too. He’d always known she would. Grace had the kind of feminine pride not often seen nowadays.

  ‘Did you ever patch things up with your family?’ he asked suddenly.

  Grace felt the colour rise to her face. ‘I ran into my sister Rachel a few years ago,’ she told him quickly. ‘She’s a headmistress now — somewhere in Yorkshire. She gave me news of my other sisters. They’re all fine.’

  ‘And your father?’

  Grace drew a deep breath. ‘He died. He took his own life.’ Harry winced. ‘I’m sorry, Grace. I shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘No, I’m glad you did. It was a relief to me, Harry, seeing Rachel and hearing about the rest of them. Father didn’t — he didn’t mistreat the other girls. I was relieved about that. It had always worried me.’

  He looked at her and found himself speculating about her father. It had always seemed to him that the man was twisted. He was surely more than simply a strict father. Could his mistreatment have extended to more than physical abuse? he wondered. He sighed, wishing the thought had occurred to him all those years ago. That could have been the cause of her inhibitions. If he could have got her to talk about it... Had she ever managed to overcome her revulsion for physical contact? Slightly ashamed, he thrust the thought aside and said: ‘I daresay it would be a simple matter to get the marriage dissolved now, if that’s what you’d like? It’s been so long. It’d be no more than a formality by now, I daresay.’ Grace rose and began to clear the table, avoiding his eyes. ‘Yes, I daresay you’re right.’

  They tidied up companionably together in the kitchen, Grace washing whilst Harry dried.

  ‘Will Elaine be joining us?’ Harry asked at last. ‘Tricia tells me she’s living with you while she looks for a place of her own.’ Grace avoided his eye. ‘She’s staying at her partner’s flat this weekend. I believe they ha
ve some work they want to catch up with.’

  ‘I see.’ Harry put down the plate he was drying. ‘Look, Grace, if my coming here is causing you any trouble...’

  She turned to look at him. ‘Elaine has had a hard time for some years — her husband’s illness and the divorce have taken their toll of her. She hasn’t said anything, but I think she might find the situation a little difficult to come to terms with. But she’ll come round eventually.’

  He searched her eyes. ‘Does that mean what I hope it means — that we’re going to continue to see each other?’

  For a long moment they looked at each other, then Harry took both her hands and drew her to him.

  ‘I know it’s no use saying we can take up where we left off,’ he said. ‘It was so long ago, and too much went wrong between us for that. It wouldn’t be realistic. But I daresay the years have changed us both. We’re two different people now. We could have a try at getting to know each other again. Take it a step at a time.’ He looked down at her. ‘What do you say, Grace.’

  She nodded, her throat tight. ‘Yes, Harry. I’d like that very much.’

  ‘I’d hate to lose you again now that I’ve found you.’

  They talked until long after the hands of the clock had passed midnight, filling in the gaps in each of their pasts. Sitting side by side on the settee, it seemed to Grace like turning the clock back to the time when they had first met. In spite of the fact that they had both grown older and matured, she felt now just as she had then. Harry was a little heavier and his hair greyer, but for all that he was the same Harry she had met and fallen in love with when she was sixteen.

  ‘Do you like living in London?’ she asked him. ‘I thought of moving up there recently, but then I changed my mind.’

  ‘You made a wise decision.’ He sighed. ‘Sometimes I get so tired of the noise and bustle — of never knowing where I’ll be working next week. It was exciting once, but now I tire more easily and I’m getting the odd twinge of arthritis in my fingers.’ He smiled wistfully. ‘There are times when I’d give anything to live in a place like this. You have everything here; beautiful architecture; a pleasant town. There’s the river and the countryside not far away.’

  Grace had a sudden idea — one that made her heart quicken with excitement. ‘Harry...’ She turned to look at him, her eyes shining. ‘You could always come here and help with HEA. You could be our resident pianist. Elaine would be so...’

  He was shaking his head ruefully. ‘It sounds wonderful, but somehow I feel Elaine might not share your enthusiasm. Do us all a favour and sound her out first, eh?’ He smiled as he saw her stifle a yawn. ‘You’re tired,’ he said. ‘I think it’s time to call it a day.’

  On the landing Grace paused. Her cheeks were pink and she couldn’t quite meet his eyes as she said: ‘I’ve put you in the spare room, Harry.’

  He smiled gently. ‘I’m sure I’ll sleep like a log after that wonderful dinner.’ He saw the uncertainty in her eyes and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Grace, my dear. We said we’d take it a step at a time, didn’t we: I’ve enough sense to know that I have to win your trust all over again.’ He kissed her very gently on the lips and smiled down into her eyes. ‘You know it’s funny, but the older you get, the less hurry there seems to be. Goodnight, love.’

  ‘Goodnight, Harry.’

  As she sat at her dressing table, taking off her make-up and preparing for bed, she thought how comforting it was, hearing him moving about in the room next door. Perhaps, someday soon... She found to her surprise that the thought of sharing a room — a bed — the intimacy of close contact with him, held no fears for her.

  ‘It’s a second chance,’ she whispered to her reflection. ‘I’ve been given a second chance.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘That’s it!’ Tricia strode across the studio and began to put her violin into its case. ‘This isn’t working, Max. I can’t go on any longer.’ She had been at his flat since late morning and had worked now for five hours without a break, playing the same piece over and over. Max, it seemed, was never satisfied. There was nothing about her playing that was right. Now, after hours of explosive, sometimes heavily sarcastic, criticism, he sat at the piano, smiling calmly at her as she began to struggle into her jacket.

  ‘Just calm down,’ he instructed. ‘We’ll have a break if you like, then you can try again. The trouble is that at the moment you’re letting your temper play the damned violin.’

  She rounded on him. ‘Well, what do you expect? You make me go over and over it just for the sake of finding fault. I’ve practised that damned thing for hours at home. I work and work, yet you call me lazy and careless.’

  ‘All right, all right. I admit that was uncalled for...’

  ‘And you yell at me loud enough for that woman to hear.’

  ‘Woman?’ He frowned. ‘What woman?’

  ‘Your — your mistress or whatever she is. She’s always here, popping in and out to make sheep’s eyes at you and gloat over my humiliation.’

  Max got to his feet. His face was angry now. ‘Don’t be bloody impertinent. Consuela is not my mistress. Neither is she here to humiliate you.’

  ‘Then who is she? And if she doesn’t live here, why does she always have to be hanging around when I’m here?’

  ‘That is none of your business,’ he thundered. ‘I will not have you questioning me about my guests. Perhaps it would be better if you left now, and came back when your manners have improved.’

  ‘I shan’t be coming back again,’ she told him, gratified that she’d managed at last to arouse his anger. ‘I’ve had you and your arrogant, high-handed attitude right up to here. And as for manners — you’ve got a lot of room to talk, I must say.’ She snapped her case shut and began to cross the room, but he moved quickly to stand in her path.

  ‘You’re not leaving here in this mood.’

  ‘But you’ve just told me to go.’

  ‘Not like this.’

  ‘Please get out of my way.’

  ‘No. You’re far too angry.’

  She pushed at him, but he was like a solid wall. ‘Get away. I want to go — ho-ome.’ The last three words came out like a child’s defenceless wail and to her horror she found herself crying with impotent fury. Hating him for forcing this final humiliation upon her, she kicked viciously at his ankle. ‘Oh, I hate you,’ she sobbed. ‘Why can’t you just let me go and forget all about me? I’ll never make a concert artist. I’m no good. I’m useless. I’m not even even me any more.’ Scalding, helpless tears were pouring down her cheeks now. It no longer mattered that he was seeing her at her weakest — her most vulnerable. She just didn’t care any more.

  Very gently he took her violin case out of her arms and put it aside, then he put an arm around her shoulders and led her firmly across the room to the settee.

  ‘Sit down,’ he commanded. ‘First, you’re going to tell me what all this is about, then I’m going to make you something to eat. Maybe hunger is your problem.’ He took out a clean handkerchief and dabbed at her face, soaking up the tears that trembled on the ends of her fair-tipped lashes. ‘Now what’s wrong, Tricia?’ he asked. ‘What’s really wrong?’

  At the new, softer tone in his voice, the tears gathered afresh in her throat. ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she said thickly.

  ‘Try me. We’ve got plenty of time.’

  ‘I’ve had some news.’

  ‘What kind of news?’

  ‘I’ve been told something rather disturbing. It’s made me feel — odd ever since.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  She paused, biting her lip, wondering where on earth to begin. ‘Have you ever heard the expression, “lost a shilling and found a sixpence”?’ she said at last.

  ‘Yes.’

  She took the handkerchief from him and blew her nose. ‘My grandmother used to say that to me when I was little. Well, I’ve lost a father and found a grandfather.’

  He loo
ked nonplussed. ‘Sorry, but I’m afraid you’ve lost me. I think you’re going to have to elucidate on that one, Tricia.’

  ‘My parents are divorcing at the moment. But my mother has just told me that my father — isn’t — if you see what I mean. And she won’t tell me who is.’

  ‘And that gives you an identity problem?’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked at him. ‘Well, wouldn’t it you?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ He frowned. ‘But you mentioned your grandfather. Where does he come into it?’

  ‘He and my gran split up years ago, when my mother was a child. He was a musician. I always knew that. Then, a few weeks ago and quite by accident, I discovered that he was none other than Harry Wendover.’

  ‘Our Harry Wendover, you mean?’ Max’s eyes widened. ‘But that’s great.’ He peered at her enquiringly. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘It is to me. And to my Gran too. But my mother won’t have anything to do with him. She can’t forgive him for leaving all those years ago.’ She looked up at him. ‘The whole bloody thing is getting me down. I’m torn in two directions and I can’t stop wondering who I am and where we’re all going.’

  ‘Then don’t.’ He took her firmly by the shoulders. ‘Look, I know who you are. You’re Patricia Kingston and you’re going to be a concert violinist. I’ve taken you on as my protégée and no one I’ve taught has ever failed. Do you understand that?’

  She stared at him. ‘Yes, but...’

  He put a finger over her lips. ‘No buts. That was a positive statement. There’ll be no doubts, no thought of failure — no excuses, or negative thoughts. You are going to succeed.’ She opened her mouth to speak, but he went on: ‘Names don’t mean a thing, Tricia. Parents give us our physical bodies and, if we’re lucky, some useful genes. The rest is up to us. You’re you. That’s all you need to know. You have talent and guts and stamina. I have the ability to mould all that into a professional career for you. If you’ll let me, and if it’s what you want.’ He looked at her. ‘Is that what you want, Tricia? Because that’s all you really have to ask yourself.’